“Fear”. The word conjures up images of trembling and flight. But that isn’t what most fear is. Fear is simply not knowing what to do with a situation.
Vedawoo (“VEE-da-voo”) is an area of intriguing rock formations.
Some are like six-foot-tall mushrooms made of knobbly granite, sprouting out of the wooded plain.
Some are like breaking waves, frozen in stone.
But some are as big as small hills, formed of shelves and folds, balanced boulders, channels and miniature canyons, with the occasional little arches and (after rain) pools of water cupped in the granite.
It invites you to scramble and clamber, explore, and wander out to a local high point for a promontory view.
I was picking my way along one of the ridges, towards one of these views. Three guys were working towards me, having already had their time at the view.
As they came into my presence, the leading one leapt across a little crevice a few feet wide. The second one said something about “the gay gazelle”.
There it was, some of the fear I am exploring this definition of.
The second guy was a little afraid he could not leap across so well. So his comment came out sharp, a joking complement, with a teasing barb.
He was a little afraid of me too, coming towards them, burly and hairy.
What if I were straight? What if I challenged them? Or even asked them something?
Or remarked in a way they would not know how to reflect back?
The guy had to quickly, and insistently, post that they were gay. Set the agenda.
I guess, by that definition, I was afraid too. I didn’t know what to do with this.
I never know what to do with guys who are rambling along, snapping their necks and wrists.
Whose entire vocalization consists of muttered quotes (from show tunes?) I have never heard of.